BAD VIBES
Luke Haines was born in God's own county of Surrey in 1967.He has recorded five albums with the Auteurs, one album as BaaderMeinhof, three albums with Black Box Recorder, one film soundtrackalbum and two solo albums. He has appeared on Top of thePops and has been nominated for loads of awards but has wonnothing. In 2003 Luke Haines was in Debretts People of Today. Hethinks that he is no longer listed in this esteemed publication, asthe free copy of the magazine hasn't been delivered for some time.It's not the end of the world. The author is married with one child.
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For Sian and Fred with love
Introduction
Back in August 2006, on the second night of my one-man showat the Edinburgh Festival, I was apprehended by a literary editor,several film producers, a crime writer and a prison officer andasked when my life story was coming out. I took the question asa fait accompli, as I do with most artistic endeavours that ticklemy fancy, caught the train back to London and promptly did nothingabout it. Six months later, while watching from the sidelines asmy old record label (Virgin/EMI) crumbled, and recovering fromthe psychic wounds inflicted after a ghastly legal battle with yetanother unscrupulous independent record label, I figured that nowwas the right time to write this memoir of my last decade in thetwentieth century. Now that the house in the country, the sportscar (with a boot not even big enough to hold my bespoke suits)and my last flush of youth had all gone, it was time to revisit thescene of a few old crimes. The book wrote itself.
The 90s: specifically 19927, which the body of this book isconcerned with. The 90s: the dawn of post-fucking-everything,when I was in my twenties and my ego and I roamed about theglobe, bickering and bitching like a couple of bad-tempered ogres.When I sat down to write this memoir I was surprised how muchof this stuff was ricocheting about in my subconscious: youth,ambition, failure, depression, excess, spite and stupidity. Now Ithink it has stopped. I am a recovering egomaniac.
My twenties: when I was young and cruel. I want to stress thatin writing this memoir I have spared the reader the dubious benefitof good old hindsight. The wisdom I have added is that dreadful,creeping brand of morning-after sobriety, which I hope gives a farmore accurate insight into my mindset during this period. All ofwhich should be enough to reassure the reader that Bad Vibes isemphatically not an exercise in score settling, though due to the'in the moment transmission of my life' style in which this bookis written the casual reader may beg to differ. It is very much whatI thought then, not necessarily what I think now. We have to tellthe truth. Do we not? Also, I should state that I bear no ill willto the people and characters in this book, most of whom I don'tthink about very often. When I do, it is only with fondness. Mostly.
Prologue
Is it ever right to strike a dwarf?
A strange thing happens at the beginning of 1993. I become a popstar. In France. Served up with the cornflakes. This turn of eventstakes everyone, not least of all me, by surprise.
My debut album that is, the first album that I have written,played the lion's share of instruments on, arranged, and co-produced New Wave is released in the UK and France simultaneously on 22February 1993. In Blighty things are going swimmingly, better thanI ever expected, but in France I am a palpable star. So much of astar that I idly toy with the idea of taking French lessons to improvemy useless franglais. As it turns out, I'm just too busy pursuing myglamorous jet-setting lifestyle to do any thing as mundane as improvemy continental linguistic prowess. I spend my honeymoon year ofpop wonderment hurtling back and forth between London andFrance. Perhaps the record company will rent me an apartment here inParis? The 6th arrondissement would be nice.
For the first few months after its release NewWave flies out of Fnac(record) stores the length and breadth of the republic at a rate of10,000 copies a week. I am therefore required, by the laws of recordpromotion, to swim in the Gallic mainstream. Throughout the yearI haughtily work my way through a glut of French television varietyshows, appearing alongside jugglers, clowns, impressionists, ancientchansonniers, gifted pets, strippers and disturbed child stars. It's afucking blast. I even get to do press conferences, where I get to tryout my sarky Dylan in Don't Look Back act on the ladies andgentlemen of the foreign press. For them my success is not such afucking blast. Things are going well.
So, in the halcyon summer of '93, I find myself in Strasbourg,midway through our second headlining tour of France. The venueis sold out. The continental heat only heightens the expectationsof the crowd. We, the Auteurs, played a storming set here just afew months ago and now tonight's lucky ticket holders want moreof the old magic. It won't be hard, I say to myself the band'ssound is supremely confident, and I'm surfing wave upon wave ofthe stuff. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, Strasbourg is mine.
We're just hitting the penultimate song the as yet unreleased'Lenny Valentino' when I notice the audience surging forward.A dwarf has been hoisted to the front of the crowd. Man, thatmidget is ugly and badly dressed I think to myself, taking inhis mullet, designer stubble and brightly coloured Europeanleisurewear. Drunk too. Within seconds the little man is kickingmy shins and biting my knees. I am now sharing the stage with anunfashionable, drunken and extremely aggressive dwarf.
I look across at the other members of my band to gauge theirfacial expressions and to confirm that this is really happening. Itis: Alice Readman, our bassist and my girlfriend, is mortified. TheCellist has his head bowed. I glance behind me at Barney C.Rockford, our drummer, to see that even though he is in hysterics,he is still ably pounding away at his kit. I wonder what facialexpression I should adopt, but it's difficult to know how to reactwhen one is being viciously attacked by a dwarf in front of manypeople.
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